Danger’s Promise

by Marliss Moon

  He lifted his head at last, and her eyes floated open. She found him gazing at her with toe-curling intensity, a hint of color in his cheeks. “Perhaps you would care to retire, since you have no appetite,” he suggested in a voice that made her stomach flutter.

  She darted a look out the windows. It was shockingly early for them to retire. The sun was still a hot ball of fire sinking toward the west. “ ’Tis not yet sunset,” she protested, though the notion greatly appealed to her. She didn’t want to sit another minute watching Ferguson feast on his final supper.

  The knowledge of tomorrow’s violence left her queasy. She felt strangely guilty for plotting Ferguson’s demise in such a cold-hearted manner. Moreover, it troubled her that Christian had not considered that war might break out.

  “Will you come, too?” she asked. She yearned to speak with Christian in private, to calm her fears.

  “In a while,” he promised. “You should take some rest.” His eyes glinted with sensual warning. “I vow you’ll need it.”

  Her heart skipped a beat. To distract herself, she glanced toward her mother. Jeanette was seated next to Ferguson. She appeared to be in deep contemplation of her trencher. She had eaten no more than her daughter, though a fork was poised over the food in readiness. She hadn’t been given a knife, apparently.

  Clarise couldn’t help but sense an air of determination about Jeanette. At Heathersgill, her mother had always behaved passively. Perhaps it was Sir Roger’s flattering gaze that caused her mother to sit straighter, to hold her chin higher.

  But Merry was another matter altogether. Clarise realized how little she had seen of her sister, even before leaving Heathersgill on her dangerous mission. Merry had taken to living in the hills with the cunningwoman who taught her of herbs and their powers. Even with her flame-red hair out of sight, there was something wild and reckless about the look in Merry’s eyes. It pained Clarise to discover that her sister dabbled in poisons as well as herbs. Look what Ferguson has done to her, she thought. He deserved to die tomorrow. She wouldn’t waste another drop of guilt for plotting his death.

  She turned back to her husband. The strain of smiling under so much tension had drained her. “I think I will retire,” she informed him wanly.

  He pushed back his chair and helped her to rise. All conversation dimmed at once. Clarise concentrated on picking her way past the many guests at the table and ignoring the jests called out by brave or foolish soldiers. They wove their way among the trestles and came to the stairs. There Christian passed her on to Nell, who was waiting with the bloom of pleasure on her round cheeks.

  “Anon,” the warlord promised, bringing his hand up to caress her jaw.

  He seemed distracted, Clarise thought, turning away with Nell. She looked back at him once, overcome by curiosity. Was he up to something? she wondered. She found him studying her ascension to the second level. He raised his goblet in salute, and she blushed at the attention, looking away.

  Above the solar door was a garland made from lily of the valley blossoms. She paused to admire it. With a proud smile, Nell opened the door to the bridal bower. The servants had thrown themselves into the wedding preparations. Even Dame Maeve had contributed her share of help, undertaking a frenzy of activities that included looping garlands around the bedposts and laying Clarise’s new wardrobe in the chest toted from her bedchamber.

  The room smelled of summer lilies and heliotrope. The tallow lamps splashed white light onto the tapestries. Her new collection of perfumes was posited on the table next to Christian’s books. A nightdress fashioned from the sheerest silk lay across the bed like icing on a cake.

  Clarise absorbed every detail with a sense of unreality. Was this just a dream? Everything had come so easily. Even the passion and romance one normally associated with a love match seemed to find its way into the atmosphere, despite tomorrow’s conflict. It left her wondering if she wasn’t trying to delude herself. This was just a marriage of convenience, after all. No one had mentioned a word of everlasting love.

  The train of her gown crackled over the rush mat as she crossed to the open window. With the onset of evening, the horizon was turning pale pink. A cool breeze stirred the loose tendrils of her hair. She sent her gaze over the outer wall and spied the collection of Ferguson’s tents. Other competitors had come to test their skill at the tourney, adding a sea of bright canopies to the open field.

  She turned away. This was her wedding night. Tomorrow would bring a deadly tangle of arms and the unexpected death of the Scottish leader. Would the Scots suspect foul play and rally behind their murdered lord? Would a war break out at Helmesly?

  She wanted to address these fears to Christian, only he had avoided all discussion of it earlier. And now he was lingering in the hall, playing the gracious host.

  Clarise pressed a hand to her roiling belly. She wished she hadn’t insisted that Ferguson be destroyed at once. Tomorrow’s violence diminished tonight’s possibilities. She felt as though something breathless and beautiful were on the verge of bursting from its chrysalis, only to be discouraged by the threat of winter. She wished she’d been more patient, allowing time for her marriage to mature.

  Tonight, she wanted Christian to herself, with no worries intervening.

  She comforted herself with the thought that she would have him every night hereafter, for the rest of their lives.

  Chapter Eighteen

  She was dozing against the heap of pillows when the door groaned inward. Clarise’s eyes snapped open. Her in-drawn breath congealed. She couldn’t see the door for the bed curtains that barred her view. The room was steeped in stygian darkness.

  If the intruder were her husband, she would have heard the revelers accompanying him to the bridal bower. Tradition dictated that they create a great clamor, thereby advising the bride of the groom’s imminent appearance.

  The door closed quietly behind the interloper. It couldn’t be Nell, for she’d sent the maid away after brushing out her hair, applying more perfume, and donning her nightdress. Besides, Nell’s footfalls were lighter.

  A nameless fear raked Clarise’s spine. It had to be a Scottish intruder, intent on murdering the bride. Poor Christian, she thought, unable to move for the terror that gripped her. He would be accused of killing her himself, just as he’d been accused of murdering Genrose. She could not allow that to happen. For his sake, she must summon the courage to move.

  Now! She threw herself to the far side of the bed and dived under the closed drapes. Thudding to the floor, she scrambled up again. Her heart strained against her ribs. She lurched blindly toward the door, intent on ripping it open and running onto the gallery to scream for help.

  She never made it to the door. Two powerful arms snatched her from behind, lifting her into the air. She screamed, and a hand clasped over her mouth. “Quiet!” commanded a familiar voice. “ ’Tis I, Clarise. Why are you fighting me?”

  Fear drained away in such a rush that it left her limp. She sagged in her husband’s arms, her legs useless to hold her weight. He lifted his hand from her mouth. “Are you all right?” he asked.

  She nodded, dumbly.

  The arms that held her became a tender circle.

  Clarise was grateful for his support and the radiating warmth that soothed her trembling. Would she always associate his scent with comfort and security?

  “Come back to bed,” he urged, taking her hand. He stubbed his toe in the darkness and cursed. “Who doused the flames?” he asked irritably.

  “They were never lit,” she said. “I went to bed when it was still light out.”

  He pulled apart the bed drapes while keeping one hand on her silk-clad waist. “Did you rest?” His palm smoothed upward to linger under the weight of one breast.

  “Aye.” His heat seemed to burn her through the flimsy fabric. “I was asleep when the door opened. I heard no revelers, my lord, so I assumed you were an intruder, intent on murdering me in my bed.”

  “Hush, that’s an evil
thought.” He cupped her breast, his thumb rubbing over the nipple, pearling it instantly.

  “And not beyond the scope of Ferguson’s mind,” she added breathlessly. “Why didn’t I hear the revelers announcing you?”

  They had been standing toe to toe in the darkness. Suddenly he stepped away from her, dropping his hand. “You must have slept through their noise,” he said, crossing to the table. She heard him strike a flint before the room flared into view.

  Her husband looked forbidding with the light shining on his face. Indeed, he was scowling. His scar stood out in pale relief.

  “I hope I haven’t upset you, my lord,” she said, dreading the appearance of his darker side. He seemed preoccupied.

  “Hmmm?” He glanced up from the flame. “Nay, ’tisn’t you.” He gazed at her thoughtfully a moment. “Your sister Merry, has she always been so fierce?” he asked.

  “Merry?” Oh, mercy, what has Merry done? “She didn’t try to poison you did she?” she asked, covering her mouth with her fingertips.

  “Worse,” he said. “She cursed my manhood.”

  Speechless, Clarise could only stare at him.

  “ ’Twas during the toasting. She stood, and before the Scots and everyone, she said—let me see if I recall the words correctly—she said, ‘To the groom. May your ballocks shrivel and fall off if you dare ever to strike my beautiful sister.’ ”

  “She didn’t!” Clarise gasped, appalled that Merry could have made such an unladylike threat. “I’m so sorry,” she added, trying to guess the extent of his upset.

  He shrugged. “I don’t fear her threat,” he said. “Only cowards use their strength against the weaker sex. Besides, she was right.” He flicked her a look. “You are beautiful.”

  “My lord, she doesn’t know you,” Clarise explained. “All she knows of warring men is what Ferguson has demonstrated. Do you see what he has done to our family?” She gestured. “He has made my mother but a shadow of herself. He has made my sister crazed!”

  “Let’s not talk of Ferguson,” he curtly interrupted, turning to the window. As he opened the shutters, the light of the full moon flooded the chambers, lending an ethereal glow to their boudoir. “Perfect,” he said, with forced satisfaction. “Can you see the moon from the bed?”

  She could see nearly the whole face of the moon through the open window. For modesty’s sake, she thought it better to keep the room in darkness. Clearly, her groom thought otherwise. “ ’Tis lovely,” she relented.

  He turned and looked at her, and his expression transformed from brooding to awestruck. “Nay, ’tis you who are lovely,” he corrected her. His gaze fell to her bosom, outlined in a gown so sheer it might have been woven by spiders. She had a feeling he could see straight through it.

  Her recent fright was forgotten. Tomorrow’s tourney seemed eons away. There was only the two of them now and a night that promised so much. His admiring gaze made her feel alluring, a siren beckoning him into the seas of bliss. Suddenly she was happy to let the moon reveal her best-kept secrets.

  His hands went to the buckle on his belt. The thick strap dropped to the mat with a soft chink. He put one boot on the chest, unbuckled it and cast it off. The other boot followed. With his gaze still intently on her person, he unwound the leather strips that crisscrossed the length of his legs. The tunic he yanked over his head followed by his undershirt. In a single movement, he pushed his chausses over his hips, drawing them off, drawers and all.

  Clarise could scarcely breathe by the end of his undressing. She reeled to find him suddenly naked, muscles oiled in moonlight. The size of the weapon jutting from the thatch of dark hair at his groin had her sinking weakly onto the bed.

  Her gaze traveled wondrously over his naked form. Every muscle stood in stark relief, enticing the light to gleam on the upraised surfaces and the shadows to linger in the valleys. The closer he sauntered, the more details sprang into view. She felt herself growing dizzy.

  “Are you afraid?” he asked, sitting smoothly beside her.

  She marveled at the breadth of his chest, dark hair gleaming on it like a shield. “Nay,” she admitted, surprised by her own realization. She remembered the tenderness of his kisses. He would be gentle with her, she was certain.

  He let out a long breath. “I am,” he admitted gruffly.

  She looked abruptly at his face. “You are?” She would never have thought he would admit to such masculine insecurity.

  “Afraid I’ll hurt you,” he told her, raking a hand through his savage hair. “You’re an untried maiden, and I am not a small man. I want to give you pleasure tonight, not pain.”

  “Afraid of my sister’s threat?” she teased, glancing down at his upright member. “ ’Twould be a shame for it to wither and fall off.”

  Despite the seriousness of the moment, she managed to make him laugh, a rusty sound that made her want to reach for him and kiss him soundly. “You won’t hurt me, my lord,” she added, smoothing a hand over the muscles of his upper arm. So much latent power! “I promise, ’twill be all right.”

  He leaned slowly toward her. With aching tenderness, he kissed her mouth, gaining entrance so painstakingly that she looped her arms around him and pulled him harder to her. The feel of his bare skin was intoxicating. Both times he’d had her in his bed, he’d been fully dressed. Now, she could not get enough of his warm, densely muscled body. His skin felt like silk over steel. It smelled of manliness and juniper-scented soap.

  He pressed her down onto the pillows, then rolled abruptly onto his back, taking her with him. “You set the pace,” he said, his hands searing through the fabric of her gown. She lay sprawled across his hard body, one leg between his. He waited.

  “I . . . I have no idea what to do,” she said, flushing self-consciously.

  “Aye, you do,” he replied. “Just kiss me.”

  She shyly complied, putting her mouth to his, her hair falling in a silken curtain around them. He responded with retrained savagery, and she found it exhilarating to control how long, how deep. She drove him to hungry desperation, then pulled away, placing petal-soft kisses at the corner of his mouth, along his jaw. She nibbled daintily on his earlobe, drawing a groan from him.

  His reaction mounted her excitement. She squirmed against him, seeking his hardness instinctively, not knowing where or how to focus the growing hunger inside of her, the ache in her breasts.

  “Put your knees here,” he instructed, patting the mattress on either side of him.

  He helped her, lifting the silk of her gown so it wouldn’t tear. Its hem rode the tops of her thighs, giving him a glimpse of her bright woman’s hair. Christian closed his eyes in pleasure as she settled down on him, not penetrating but touching thigh to thigh.

  Stunned by their closeness, Clarise tensed, half fearful of the thick column pressed against her tender flesh. “Get used to me,” he said. “Touch me as you please.”

  She obeyed, her hands trembling with awe as she spread them on his raised chest muscles. Her fingers tangled in the crisp mat of his chest hairs. She caressed the tiny male nipples that grew erect at her touch. She drew her fingers lower, across the armor of his rib cage to the flat plane of his belly, where a line of hair tapered to his loins. His indrawn breath made her ask in deight, “Are you ticklish, my lord?”

  He grabbed her wrists before she could tickle him. “Don’t,” he warned.

  She longed to make him laugh again, but then he released her to caress her thighs, and she forgot her intent. He caressed her, using the silk of her gown to enhance his touch. The cool glide of the material ignited a shimmering heat in her belly. She rocked her hips instinctively, encountering his hardness.

  Very gently Christian rolled her over. It fulfilled an instinctive need in her to feel his weight pressing against her. She’d touched and explored him; she was ready to join with him if the time was right. He pressed a kiss to her temple, to her cheek, her jaw. He nuzzled her neck, making her giggle as the bristles on his chin tickled her.<
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  “Are you ticklish, my lady?” he countered. Laughter became a gasp as he nipped the crowns of her breasts through the fabric of the nightdress. He slid the capped sleeves over her shoulders, baring her breasts one at a time to his view. The firm orbs glowed in the moonlight. He took them deep in the heat of his mouth, sucking as he’d done before. Clarise’s gasp became a moan. Pleasure arrowed downward, summoning warmth and wetness between her thighs.

  Feeling his knee between her legs, she parted them, tensed for the thick invasion that was to come. But then he moved clear down the length of her body, pinning her thighs wide open with his hands. He kissed the insides of her legs where her skin was the most sensitive. She leaped and squirmed to keep the rasp of his jaw from scraping her.

  All at once his mouth landed on the curls between her legs, and she froze in astonishment. She could scarcely breathe. Then Christian delved deeper, tasting her.

  She lurched to her elbows. “What are you doing?” she gasped.

  The firm, moist ridge of his tongue slid into the folds of her flesh. She tried to twist free, but he held her fast and repeated the scandalous caress. “My lord!” she cried, amazed by the searing pleasure washing over her. “Oh, heavens!”

  “Relax,” he said. “Feel me.”

  She fell back with a cry of surrender. How could she do anything but feel him? He caressed her intimately, acquainting his tongue with every one of her secrets. Driving her relentlessly to a place she’d never been before. Sensations built one on top of the other, threatening to wash over her.

  He slipped a finger inside of her. She bit her lip to keep from screaming. He stretched her gently, never ceasing his scandalous caresses. Her muscles tightened. A scalding flush brought perspiration to her skin. She felt fevered, a little frightened by the intensity of her pleasure. Surely, if she let herself go, these feelings would consume her.

  Without warning, he covered her again. His mouth sought hers, and he kissed her deeply, hungrily. Tasting her woman’s musk on his lips, she became a creature of instinct. Her hips rose to greet his tumescence, needing, longing for him to ease the sudden emptiness.